


The day

by BBCRULES



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-15
Updated: 2013-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-05 09:14:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/721375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBCRULES/pseuds/BBCRULES
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John... The fateful day of his fall to the funeral.  Please, comments are welcome and appreciated.<br/>Thank you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The day

**GREG LESTRADE**

"Stay in the car. Don't you dare get out, Donovan! Send one officer to the rooftop. Secure the scene."

She turns pale. I feel nauseous. We just see it. A dark puddle of blood, already coagulating. A couple of people still stand on the site. An officer shoos them away.

The car screeches to a halt. I jump out even before the car stops. Barking orders to officers, I dart to the door, to the morgue door.

_Damn procedure!_

I have to go to the rooftop first, but I ignore it.

_He can't be dead. He'd be the last person to commit suicide. Idiot! Why? From Reichenbach hero to a suspect in a kidnapping case was too much? I shouldn't have listened to those terrible two. I shouldn't have handcuffed him last night. What's wrong with me? What have I done? Seeds of doubt… That was what he said. I might as well as have pushed him to his death._

Now I remember all the cases, hot and cold, that he has cracked for me. They prove his genius. Sweat beads up on my forehead. I know the tight knot of guilt won't go away forever.

Turning around the corner, my heart stops. John… I see him through an open door. A couple of nurses are surrounding him, but he isn't responsive. His face's blank.

_No, it can't be true. Sherlock didn't make John watch. That bastard!_

I rush downstairs and fumble at the doorknob. I almost kick the door open. Two doors… I stumble to a nearest slab, panting hard. Then I see his things, the ones he wore last night. The navy coat, blue scarf, purple shirt… Drips of blood from the clothes color the white surface of the slab. I stare the red stain in disbelief and then look up slowly.

Mycroft Holmes and Molly Hooper are standing two slabs away.

Molly's face is ashen; eyes red and teary; lips trembling. Her shoulders shake. She tries to say something; instead, she bursts into hiccupy sobs.

Mycroft towers over me; his presence emanates chills. I can feel his anger, disgust, disappointment, and sorrow. His face hardens at the sight of me. His voice lacks any emotions but contempt.

"I just identified his body. I'd rather you did not disturb him. My brother deserves a rest from prying eyes and rumors."

I freeze, desperately mustering up my courage to say condolences. I open my mouth, but no sound comes out of it. Feeling numb and dizzy, I shake my head and wipe my face with sleeves. My shoulders sag; eyes fixed on the floor. I manage to whisper.

"I'll check on John."

I allow myself one last glance at the bloody clothes, turn around, and drag myself out the door. I wait outside John's room for a long time, dreading the meeting with the doctor.

* * *

**Mrs. Hudson**

I close the door after paying the workman.

_It's outrageously expensive! If only Sherlock would stop flushing body parts down the drain! The loo keeps clogging. Next time, I'll charge him for the plumbing._

Sighing to myself, I start cleaning the house. By the time I finish, it's almost noon and my back hurts. I sit down in my chair and close my eyes.

_Where did he go? Where's Sherlock? Has Sherlock sorted it out with the police?_

John had looked so pale, so shocked. I was worried about him and Sherlock.

" I need a cup of tea."

Shaking my head, I prepare a light lunch. I may as well prepare extra sandwiches. Bread, butter, ham, and cheese... I set aside four pieces for the boys and nibble mine away, listening to the radio.

My phone rings. I turn the radio volume down and pick it up.

"Mrs. Hudson. This is Lestrade. John's with me."

_Is he calling to apologize for last night's raid? Sherlock's not here._

" Hello, Inspector. Has Sherlock sorted it out with you?"

His voice suddenly clenches and he answers in a raw tone.

" Mrs. Hud-Hudson. I, I'm coming over. I am, I-"

He hangs up. I grasp the phone and wonder what it's all about.

_Why is John with him? Is he hurt? What about Sherlock? Did the police arrest him?_

His voice makes me anxious and fidgety. I pace around the flat, trying to calm down. I can't shake off the bad omen.

The tea is cooling. I clasp my hands together.

Somebody's pounding on the door.

"Mrs. Hudson."

Lestrade and an officer are carrying unconscious John. His hand's bleeding. Greg has bruises on his face. Before I open my mouth, they carry the doctor to his bedroom two stairs up. I hurry along, forgetting my hips. The officer salutes me and leaves. Lestrade walks downstairs with me.

"Inspector, why is John unconscious? And your face, it's bruised!"

The inspector lowers his gaze. His lips are trembling.

"Where's Sherlock? Is he at the Yard? He isn't hurt, is he?"

"Sherlock..."

He chokes up. I look at him. He blinks, swallows hard, and then looks back.

"I'm sorry. I am so sorry. I should have- maybe-"

His shoulders tense; his breath grows shaky and uneven.

"Sherlock died, Mrs. Hudson. I, my condolences."

I don't believe any of this nonsense.

"He killed himself a couple of hours ago... I'm so sorry."

" Inspector, you're kidding. Sherlock would never..."

I'm shaking my head. It's surreal. This isn't true. Sherlock, that clever boy- he won't, he wouldn't.

I remember the police raid last night. My eyes are ablaze with fury. I ask the question.

"Why?"

He flinches. He turns around and heads out.

"Mycroft Holmes will contact you today, Mrs. Hudson. I need John for questioning, but it can wait until after his...funeral."

The door closes softly. I make my way, one shaky step at a time, to John's bedroom.

* * *

**John Watson**

He throws out his phone.

"No, Sherlock!"

I'm shouting out his name. I have to run, but I'm frozen on the spot.

My friend plunges, flailing his arms like a bird. His coat billowing, his scarf dancing...

Thump. The impact.

Everything slows down...

I run to him only to find his broken lifeless body on the pavement. Empty street. Silence falls.

Blood seeps out and makes a crimson pool.

Pale face...streaks of red...His eyes are open and empty. I kneel before him, shaking his motionless body to wake him up.

My hands touch his face. He's still warm. My tears mix with his blood.

* * *

_Where am I?_

My eyes start to recognize the familiar things in the room: bed, side table, wardrobe.. It's my room.

_Why am I here? I was at the... What a dream!_

It's almost twilight. I get out of the bed and stagger downstairs to the kitchen. My throat is scortchy dry.

I gulp down two cups, and then call _his_ name. It's time that _he_ eat something...anything. He hasn't eaten since...last night.

There's no answer. I open his bedroom door, but there's no one.

I hear hurried footsteps from downstairs.

"Sherlock, is that you?"

I turn around and see Mrs. Hudson at the door of the sitting room.

"Mrs. Hudson, thank goodness. Terrible dream. Is Sherlock downstairs?"

Her eyes are red and puffy. Her voice is hoarse and low. Her body shakes...

"Mrs. Hudson..."

A realization falls upon me.

"No, no, no... It was a bad dream. He can't be dead."

I choke out the words. I feel Mrs. Hudson's touch on my arms. She leads me to the sofa.

* * *

I roam around the flat, searching for him.

His violin and bow are still on his bed. Its case on the floor.

_-I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.-_

Petridishes are scattered. Notes full of his slant handwriting are on the table. His microscope sits on the table.

There is a check from one of his clients; he's forgotten to go to bank.

_-This is my friend , John Watson.-_

I flick on the remote control. Its red blip flickers.

_\- Me? Yeah, fine. I'm fine. Fine. That, er...thing that you that you did, that, um...you offered to do that was, um...good.-_

I see Bart's and reporters frantically reporting on the suicide of a fake genius, the death of a fradulant detective.

I turn the TV off.

I enter my blog. There are dozens of hate messages- I delete them and disable comments.

_\- Do people actually read your blog? ... I have a website.-_

The skull sneers.

_\- Friend of mine. When I say friend...-_

The smiley frowns.

_\- Bored! Bored! Don't know what's got into the criminal classes. Good job I'm not one of them...The wall had it coming.-_

The soup from Mrs. Hudson remains untouched; toast hardened. The sight of food makes me nauseous. I run to the toilet and throw up.

There's a mess on the kitchen counter. Chemicals and notes and decaying cadavers-

"Sherlock, I told you! The kitchen is for food, not experiments."

and no answer.

"Sher-"

... ... ...

"John."

I slowly turn around. Mrs. Hudson is smiling sadly. She's dressed in black, trembling ever so slightly.

Reality crashes into me.

"Sherlock called me. He told me to look. Then, he fell."

My voice sounds alien, raw and rough.

"I'm, I'm so empty, Mrs. Hudson. He was bleeding and bleeding onto the pavement and the whole world just froze and-"

I feel her hands on mine.

"John. Get ready."

Something is running down my face. My sight is blurred.

"It's time to say goodbye, John. The least we can do for him."

I stumble towards my room. There's a black suit laid out on the bed. I wash and change like a robot.

_-The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.-_

I straighten up, and walk downstairs.

It's time for a good-bye.


End file.
